Over
by Sidney Sussex
Summary: <html><head></head>Seeing John, Lestrade knows that the "arrangement" he and Sherlock have and never discuss is over. One-shot. "Post"-slash? First fanfic ever; constructive criticism loved, but please be kind.</html>


_I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC._

_ If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome._

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><p>Lestrade never realized why Sherlock was sleeping with him until it was already over.<p>

Neither of them said anything about it, of course. Sherlock wouldn't be so crass. No, Lestrade corrected himself, Sherlock _would_ be that crass. He simply wouldn't _think_ to say anything.

Lestrade lived for those nights when Sherlock, wild with the glee of a solved case or frustrated into forcefulness by an unsolved one, would come to his flat, let himself in (without a key, of course; sometimes Lestrade thought he ought to just give the younger man a proper key and have done with it, but of course, that was all over now) and release all his pent-up fervour while Lestrade rode the tidal wave of his enthusiasm, knowing that this was bad for him and not able to care in the slightest until, without a word (except those, unintelligible, screamed at the height of the moment) the detective was gone again.

It was not the sort of thing that made for a healthy relationship, not with one another, not with the world. They never spoke of it when Sherlock came to a crime scene, never changed the way they behaved toward one another (disdain and condescension, poorly-concealed exasperation). Still, glances were exchanged when the team thought Lestrade's back was turned (they didn't care about Sherlock's back). He knew anyway. He could hear the whispers and feel the eyes on him from across the room. Detective Inspector was not a title he had earned for nothing.

But all of that was over now, and Lestrade had known it the moment Sherlock had walked into that abandoned house with the limping doctor at his heels. He knew because Sherlock didn't wait when there was a case. This doctor hadn't kept up with Sherlock. Sherlock had _brought_ him. And Sherlock didn't wait when there was a case.

He knew when Sherlock asked the doctor's opinion. He knew when Sherlock didn't interrupt that opinion in utter frustration. He knew when he told Sherlock they were out of time and Sherlock didn't plead, that glint in his eye that he reserved for the moments when he and the inspector were alone, the promise of things to come. He simply rattled off his deductions and left. He didn't take the doctor with him, of course, not that time, but Lestrade knew anyway.

Sherlock didn't have friends. It was true. Once, perhaps, Lestrade had been his friend, but that had changed on the first night, on the bed, on the tangled sheets. After that, Lestrade hadn't known _what_ he was.

He knew now, though. He had seen Sherlock at his weakest; had given him a place to stay when he had nowhere else, had forced him to give up the drugs when no one else had been able to, had held him as he shook in withdrawal - did Sherlock even remember that? Probably not. Even if he had been conscious enough to notice, he deleted information that didn't matter. (A sharp pain, an intake of breath. No, that information didn't matter now.)

But Sherlock could not stand to be weak. He couldn't stand the momentary flashes that indicated that he was human, like everyone else. That his "transport" had needs, like everyone else's. Sherlock never allowed that to show through, but Lestrade had seen it.

And that was what Lestrade had been to Sherlock. He had seen the younger man's weakness, and so Sherlock had needed to make _him_ weak, to gain the upper hand, to be _needed_ and not _needing_. He had been completely in control, deciding when he was going to break into Lestrade's house, what they would do when he was there. Sometimes he held the inspector's wrists in place, sometimes he almost seemed to ignore him altogether. Lestrade had not been surprised by this. Sherlock ignored everyone, all the time. Why would this be any different? But it was, and he had only just realized it.

Was this just another display of superior strength? _I've made you need me, and now I'm going to leave, because I can?_

No. Because even though Sherlock had left the crime scene alone, the next time Lestrade saw him (a drugs bust, on the surface a way to force Sherlock to help his team, but deeper down, a way to try to _see_ and understand), he was with the doctor again.

And the way Sherlock stood, tall and straight and just a little bit too close to the doctor, told Lestrade the truth.

Sherlock would not be picking his lock again after this case, or any other_._


End file.
